by Colt, K. J.
Bronze, Raem thought, admiring the gleam of sunlight upon the metal. The humble, seaside tribe of Eteer had discovered the precious metal only a hundred years ago. Within a generation, their primitive tools—made of flint and wood—had vanished. Now Eteer was a great city-state, its sphere of power spreading across farmlands, the coast, and deep into the sea—the greatest civilization in the world, a light in the darkness, law in chaos, might rising in a weak world.
And soon I will rule this kingdom.
He stepped between two columns, leaving the courtyard, and craned back his neck. He stared up at his home.
The Palace of Eteer rose several stories tall. Blue bricks formed the bottom tier’s walls, inlaid with golden reliefs of winged bulls, rearing lions, and proud soldiers in chariots. Columns lined the upper floors, carved of indigo stone, their capitals gilded. Balconies thrust out, holding lush gardens of palm trees, blooming flowers, and vines that cascaded like green waterfalls. Upon the palace roof grew a forest lush with trees and birds. This palace was the greatest building in the world, a monument of life and power.
And all it would take, Raem thought, is a single dragon to burn it. And so no single dragon must live.
He approached a towering stone archway, its keystone engraved with the winged bull—the god Kur-Paz, protector of the city, a deity of plenty. Cedar doors banded with bronze stood open within the archway, their knockers shaped as phalli, symbols of fertility and fortune. Leaving the courtyard, Raem stepped through the archway and into a towering hall. A mosaic spread across the floor, depicting sea serpents wrapping around ships. Columns supported a domed ceiling painted with scenes of cranes and falcons. As Raem walked, his footfalls echoed.
When he passed by a limestone statue, he paused, turned toward it, and admired the work. He had ordered this statue—a likeness of himself—carved only last year. The stone prince was an accurate depiction—tall and broad, clad in ring armor, the face stern. The jaw was as wide as the forehead, and small eyes stared from under a great shelf of a brow. The head was bald, the chin protruding. Raem was a towering man, and this statue—life-sized—towered over most who walked by it. The shoulders were wide, the arms thick—a body built for the battlefield, a body the god Taal would approve of. Though fifty years of age, Raem kept himself strong, training with his blade every day. He had seen nobles go soft in their palaces, far from battles and fields, pampered with endless feasts, plays, and other luxuries of wealth. Raem refused such decadence. He would keep himself as strong as the gruffest soldier in his kingdom’s army.
He reached a staircase and climbed through the palace, passing by many halls and chambers. Finally, five stories up, he emerged onto the roof.
He stood upon the edge and inhaled deeply, filling his nostrils with the scent of the gardens around him, the city below, and the sea beyond. Eteer, center of the Eteerian civilization, spread along the northern coast. Home to two hundred thousand souls, here was a hive of limestone houses topped with white domes, gardens leafy with palm and fig trees, and cobbled streets lined with cypresses. Walls surrounded the city and ran along the shore, topped with battlements.
The greatest wonder of Eteer, however, was not its massive size, its fabled gardens, or its towering walls, but the city’s port. A canal drove into Eteer, ending with a ring of water large enough to surround a town. Other cities built ports that stretched into the sea; Eteer brought the sea into the city. Dozens of ships navigated this man-made canal, their sails high and bright. In hulls and upon decks they carried the treasures of distant lands: spices, copper and tin ore, exotic pets, collared slaves, and tales from across the world.
Eteer was a stronghold of might, a city none could conquer—not the southern city-states with their own bronze blades, not the rising desert tribes in the western desert of Tiranor, and certainly not the fur-clad barbarians of the north.
Nobody could harm this place, Raem knew . . . nobody but dragons.
“And so they will die,” he said, gazing upon the countless roofs and streets below.
“Do not be so quick to deal death, my son.” The voice rose behind him. “Only Taal, Father of All Gods, may doom us mere mortals to our eternal rest or damnation.”
Raem frowned, anger filling his throat like bad wine, and turned away from the view.
Gardens covered the palace roof, lush and flowering, the greatest in a city fabled for its greenery. Olive trees grew from wide clay pots, twisting and ancient, their leaves deep green and their fruit aromatic. Vines hung from terraces, their grapes deep purple. Flowers of every kind bloomed, and finches fluttered among leafy branches. Cobbled paths ran through the gardens, lined with statues, and a stream ended with a waterfall that cascaded down the palace wall to a pool below.
Nearly invisible among the plants, clad in a simple green robe, stood Raem’s father, King Nir-Ur of House Seran.
At seventy years of age, Nir-Ur still stood straight and tall, though deep creases filled his face, and his beard was long and white as milk. His eyes, glittering under bushy brows, were as blue as the sea. A headdress of golden ivy and lapis lazuli crowned his head of snowy hair. In gnarled hands, he held a small clay tablet engraved with cuneiform prayers.
Raem was a child of war, a soldier who had commanded armies in battle, a man of bronze and blood. His father was a weaker sort of ruler, a man who valued his gardens, his jewels, and the music he played upon his lyre.
A weak king, Raem thought, staring at the man. A weak father.
“The cursed ones are a threat,” Raem said, clutching the hilt of his khopesh. “A threat I will not let grow. Not in this kingdom that I love. I will not cower upon rooftop gardens while the disease spreads through our mighty city, an abomination unto Taal.” He sneered at the clay tablet the king held. “You are a man of words. I am a man of blades.”
The old king sighed. “Walk with me through the gardens, my son.”
Not waiting for a reply, the old man turned and began to head deeper into the rooftop gardens, moving down the pebbled path.
“Let us walk through the city!” Raem reached out and grabbed his father’s shoulder. “I care not for strolls through a garden. March with me house by house, door by door. We will break bones. We will cut off fingers. We will interrogate the people until we find every last cursed, diseased creature. I will behead them myself.”
The king turned back toward him. The old man’s eyes dampened. The display of weakness disgusted Raem.
Nir-Ur spoke in a soft voice. “A curse? A disease? Raem . . . why do you name it thus? Perhaps it is a gift from the stars; the dragons rose in our kingdom once the dragon constellation began to shine. Your own wife. Your own daughter, the innocent Laira. They could have stayed with you, Raem, if only you had accepted their magic, their—“
Raem struck his father.
He struck so hard the old man fell to the ground. A family of cardinals fled. The clay tablet shattered.
“A gift!” Raem shouted, standing above his fallen father. “How dare you speak thus. My wife is impure, an abomination. So is Laira. When I discovered their filth—when I saw them shifting into reptiles in the shadows—they fled me like cowards. Accept them? When I find them in the northern, barbaric hinterlands, I will drag them back in chains, and I will lock them in Aerhein Tower, and I will watch them wither. They will beg for death before the end. Still the people of this city mock me. I hear them speak behind my back, talking of the prince who married a reptile, who fathered a reptile.”
Blood trickled down the king’s chin. Lying on the path, he stared up with watery eyes. “A reptile? Laira is your daughter, she—“
Raem spat. “I have only two children. Sena is strong and pure, a proud heir to the throne. Issari is a beautiful, chaste young woman, a princess for the people to worship. Both are pure of body and spirit. They inherited my blood. But Laira? She inherited my wife’s disease. She is a creature. When I find her, she will suffer.”
The old king struggled to rise, arms shaking
. When he coughed, blood dripped onto the path. He managed to raise his head, and finally some anger filled his eyes.
“You are a fool,” Nir-Ur said, no longer the kindly old man walking through his gardens but a twisted wretch.
“The only foolishness, Father, is letting our kingdom weaken.” Raem raised his sword. “I have led armies and vanquished the desert tribes of Tiranor, the southern city-states who would rival our kingdom if left to grow, and the northern barbarians across the sea. I strengthened these walls, and I placed a bronze khopesh in the hand of every soldier in our kingdom. I did this for Eteer’s glory—not to see the reptiles rise, to see this dawn of dragons undo my work. They would be the death of us all if they bred.” He trembled with rage. “I will eradicate the curse.”
Blood trickling down his chin, King Nir-Ur pointed at his son, and his eyes hardened with cold rage. “Then, my son, you are no longer my heir. Raem, I disavow you. I—“
Raem’s bronze sword sliced into his father’s chest, passing between ribs.
“And I will eradicate any who stand in my way,” said Raem, tugging the blade back with a red curtain.
His father stared at him, eyes wide. Blood dripped from his mouth and down his chest. He tried to speak but only hoarse gasps left his mouth. The old king—frail, weak, his time done—fell.
“Raem,” the old man managed to whisper, clutching his wound. “Your own son . . . your heir . . . Prince Sena has the gift.”
Raem stared down at the dying man, and rage exploded through him. “Even with your last breath, you lie.”
His father reached out and touched Raem’s leg. Tears streamed down his creased cheeks. “Accept your son. You already lost a daughter. When you learn what Sena is . . . accept him. For our family. For—“
Raem swung his sword again.
The blade sank into the king’s neck, and the old man spoke no more. Nir-Ur collapsed onto his back, fingers curled like talons, dead eyes gazing upon the birds he had loved.
“You were a traitor,” Raem whispered, and suddenly a tremble seized him. “You were a lover of weredragons. You spoke heresy.”
He looked down at his slain father. Raem had faced barbarian hordes in battle. He had slain dozens of men, maybe hundreds, and the scars of wars covered his body. He had never flinched from bloodshed before, but now he shook, and now his eyes burned, and now he felt very young—a humble boy in the courts of a rising kingdom, so afraid, so alone in a palace of shadows and echoes. A boy with a secret. A boy with a shame.
He turned away.
He all but fled the rooftop gardens.
He raced through his palace, bloody sword in hand, ignoring the startled looks of scribes, slaves, and guards.
I exiled my wife and firstborn child. I killed my father. I must see my two remaining children, the noble Sena, the beautiful Issari. His breath shook in his lungs. I must see the purity that remains.
When he found Sena, he would pull the boy into an embrace. He would tell his son: You are noble, you are strong and pure, and I will never be a weak father to you, for you make me proud.
Down several staircases and halls, he reached the tall bronze doors of his children’s chamber. Without knocking, desperate to see his son and daughter, Raem barged into the room.
He froze.
His heart seemed to fall still.
His breath died.
The chamber was large, nearly as large as a throne room. A mosaic featuring birds, beasts, and fish covered the floor, and blue columns topped with golden capitals supported a ceiling painted with suns and stars. Stone figurines—carved as hunters, cattle, boats, and chariots—stood in alcoves. The chamber’s giltwood beds, tables, and divans had been pushed against the walls. In the center of the chamber, nearly filling even this vast room, stood a dragon.
The dragon sported blue scales—blue as the sea outside, blue as the columns, blue as the god Taal’s banners. The beast’s horns were long and white, and its eyes seemed young, afraid.
Raem’s youngest child, the beautiful Princess Issari, stood before the dragon. Her raven braid hung across her shoulder, and a headdress of topaz gemstones and golden olive leaves crowned her head. Clad in a slim, white gown hemmed with golden tassels, she had her hand upon the dragon’s snout.
“Father,” the princess whispered. She withdrew her hand and stepped backward.
“Father,” said the dragon, speaking with the same fear . . . and changed.
The beast’s wings pulled into its back. Its scales, horns, and claws vanished. It stood on its rear legs and shrank, becoming a young man clad in white.
“Sena,” Raem whispered. His eyes watered. “My son . . . you are . . .”
Raem trembled. He could barely see; the world turned red with his rage. He raised his sword, and he shouted, and his children fled from him, and all the palace, and all the city, and all the kingdom seemed to collapse around him.
LAIRA
ON HER TWENTIETH AUTUMN, LAIRA knelt in the mud, scrubbing her chieftain’s feet.
“Clean them good, you maggot,” Zerra said and spat upon her. “I think I stepped on some boar dung. Fitting for a piece of shite like you.”
The chieftain—clad in furs, his face leathery, his shaggy hair wild—sat upon a fallen log peppered with holes. Mud squelched below them, and patches of yellow grass covered the surrounding hills like thinning hair on old scalps. Few trees grew here, only a few scattered oaks and elms crowned with red leaves. Mossy boulders lay strewn like the scattered teeth of a giant. It was a place of mist, of wind, of mud and rock.
The Goldtusk tribe had been traveling south for two moons now, seeking the warm coast for the coming winter. There would be fish there, herds of bison, and geese to hunt, a place of plenty for the cold moons. Zerra boasted that the weak villagers, those who built walls and plowed fields, suffered in the snow, while he—leading a proud tribe that followed ancient ways—would give his people warm air and full bellies even in the winter.
Yet Laira knew the southern coast would offer her no relief. There too Zerra would all but starve her, feeding her only scraps—fish bones, rubbery skin, sometimes the juice of berries to lick from clay bowls. No plenty for her, Laira, the daughter of a dragon. In the south too, he would allow her no tent; she would sleep outside as always in the mud, tethered and penned with the dogs, nothing but her cloak of rodent furs to shield her from the wind and rain.
So many times she had dreamed of escape! So many times she had clawed at her bonds, trying to sneak out in the night! Yet she had always stayed, fearing the wilderness—the hunger and thirst of open land, the roaming tribes that fed on human flesh, and the wild rocs and saber-toothed cats who patrolled sky and land. And so she remained, year after year, a broken thing.
She looked up at her chieftain now, and perhaps it was the filth on his feet, and perhaps the thought of southern suffering, and perhaps it was that today she was twenty—whatever the reason, today she stared into his eyes, a feat she rarely dared, and she spoke in a strained voice.
“If I’m shite, wouldn’t I just make your feet dirtier?”
For a long moment, Zerra stared down at her, silent. Ten years ago, Laira had watched her mother—a beautiful white dragon—burn the chieftain. Zerra’s wounds had never healed. Half his face still looked like melted tallow, a field of grooves and wrinkles, the ear gone, the eye drooping. The scars stretched down his neck and along his arm. He was missing two fingers on his left hand, gone to the dragonfire.
But his scars were not what frightened Laira. After all, her own face was ravaged now too. Zerra—still seeking vengeance—had seen to that. She had seen her reflection many times; Zerra insisted she stare into whatever clear pool they passed, forcing her to see her wretchedness.
A few years ago, he had beaten Laira so badly he had shattered her jaw. Today her chin and mouth were crooked, pushed to the side, and her teeth no longer aligned. It not only marred her appearance but left her voice slurred; she always sounded like she were chew
ing on cotton, and her breath often wheezed. One time she had tried to pull her jaw back into place, only for the pain to nearly knock her unconscious. And she so remained—crooked, mumbling, a pathetic little wretch Zerra kept alive for his amusement.
“You look like a mole rat,” he would tell her, scoffing whenever she walked by. Often he would shove her in the mud, toss game entrails onto her, or spit in her face, then mock her ugliness. “You are a small, weak maggot.”
Small and weak she was. Years of hunger had damaged her as much as his fists. The chieftain only allowed her to eat whatever bits of skin and fat remained after the hunt, and whenever anyone had tried to give her more, he had beaten them with stick and stone. The long hunger left Laira fragile, as weak as a sapling in frost. She hadn’t grown much since that day ten years ago, that day her mother had died. Though a woman now, she stood barely larger than a child, her growth stunted, her frame frail. Her head often spun when she walked too much, and her arms were thin as twigs. Zerra enjoyed mocking her weakness, shoving her down and laughing when she could not rise. He claimed she was weak because of her curse, the disease he was determined—but could not prove—she carried.
To complete her misery, the chieftain sheared her hair every moon, leaving her with ragged black strands and a nicked scalp. He clad her not in warm buffalo or bear fur like the rest of the tribe, but in a ragged patchwork of rat pelts. He had pissed on that garment once and refused to let her wash it. “That is how I mark what is mine,” he had said. “And you are mine to torment.” The tattered cloak still stank of him.